


Thank the Maker

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Manka Writes Friend Fiction [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Sex, the woman could be anyone don't @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28290459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Cullen Rutherford wakes up from a dream of a certain lady that haunts his every waking moment and takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Original Female Character(s), Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Manka Writes Friend Fiction [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022509
Comments: 10
Kudos: 31





	Thank the Maker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kemvee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemvee/gifts).



> This is a gift for [Kemvee](https://kemvee.tumblr.com/) who has done SO MUCH to spread joy, cheer, and just general positive vibes all year round. Thank you for being amazing and I'm so glad I've met you.

Cullen wakes alone in the cold dawn light, heart racing and cock _throbbing_ between his legs. 

The dream lingers, even when he throws his arm over his eyes and grits his teeth to breathe through the raging inferno of lust choking his lungs. He can almost see it, can almost see _her_ the way she was in his fantasies. Her body spread across his sheets for leisurely perusal, her sinful laugh, her fingers…

 _Maker’s breath_. 

He needs to put his foolish fantasies behind him and get about his day, but the arousal pooling at the base of his spine is insistent. He turns his mind to other things - reports and guard rotations and the endless monotony of supply chains. 

Only for another vivid image, the wicked curl of her smile when she spreads her legs for him on his desk, to stop him cold. He groans, helpless before his own raw lust. 

The fantasy is potent and _dangerous_ , but he can’t resist it anymore than he can resist the lure of her body in the waking world. 

Cullen wraps his own sword-rough hand around his length and can’t contain the groan of blissful satisfaction that falls from his lips. He wets them with his tongue, thinking of the way hers slides against his when she kisses him with filthy, single-minded determination. 

Then there’s the roll of her hips when she drags herself down his body. Cullen swears he can feel her curves pressed against him, the hard points of her nipples against his chest. He strokes his cock with the same featherlight touch she would use, and it’s not the same but Maker, it’s enough. 

The oil beside his bed is for polishing his _actual_ blade, and he feels a stab of guilt at wasting it when supplies are dear, but there’s no reasoning with his screeching, blinding need. He aches and trembles with it, on the edge of his very sanity, and honestly the fact she can drive him so mad with memories alone-

The oil is cold, courtesy of the blighted hole in his roof he can’t bring himself to fix, and he hisses when it hits his palm. He holds the liquid in his hand, warming it while his thoughts wonder. 

And his thoughts are almost always on her. The swing of her hips, the curve of her rear, the way she arches when he presses her against the stone walls of the keep and trails kisses down the long slope of her neck. 

The things he wants to do to her should drive him to seek forgiveness at the feet of Andraste, but when he thinks of that all he can think of is laying his lover on the altar herself. 

He drizzles the lukewarm oil over his cock and covers his length with his fist, giving it a slow pump that’s the kind of tease she approves of. He pictures her wicked smirk, the way her breasts rise and fall when she’s mad with desire for him. 

She says she likes the way the chant sounds when he prays. Cullen imagines himself whispering it in her ear while she tries to contain her tiny whimpers and choked moans. The fantasy springs to life in his mind while he strokes his hardened cock. 

It’s evening at Skyhold. She’s interrupted his evening prayers, again. He’s been asking for fortitude to resist her, perhaps, but she’s the perfect incarnation of all his base desires, formed to torment him. 

He can’t resist hauling her up to the statue and pinning her body beneath his. She struggles, because it’s part of the game she plays. Maker help him, he loves those games, even when he shouldn’t. 

He claims her mouth and relishes in the way she bends to his will, her back against the stone. In his fantasy, he can take his time without fear of being interrupted. He rips her clothing away, the tear of fabric barely registering. She’s pliant beneath his roaming hands, melting into his embrace with wanton enthusiasm. 

Her breasts fit perfectly in his hand and she presses into his touch with nothing but greed. When he pinches the pebbled nipples he’s revealed she gasps and sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth. 

When he lowers his lips to the sensitive skin of her neck and nips at her shoulder, her cries carry his name and echo like their own sinful chant to the Maker. Her legs curl around his waist and he shoves her smalls aside to find her wet, willing, _wanting_. 

Sweet Maker. The thought of sinking into her flesh, sheathing himself inside her and listening to her moans of ecstacy is too much to bear. His grip on his cock tightens and he bucks into his hand, pretending he can feel the fluttering muscles of her core gripping him. 

In his head, she urges him on, her fingers tangling in his hair. Her whimpers and moans are _music_ , sweeter than any choir, and he can’t get enough of them. He stores all of them away greedily for moments just like this. 

Then, just as she trembles in his arms, she releases a pure, piercing cry of his name that rings across the chapel straight to the Maker himself. He’s too far gone to do anything but take her harder, faster, until she’s almost sobbing. Until she clings to him and _only_ him like a vine. 

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers into her ear, punctuating the command with a rough thrust. “Tell me what you _need_.” 

“You!” she screams her answer, head falling back against the statue of Andraste. “You! I need _you_!” 

Cullen moans brokenly, his own release catching him off guard. He spills across his hand and onto the sheets, leaving him a panting, sweaty mess covered in his own spend. 

He’s alone, sated and yet unsatisfied. He misses her, by the Maker he misses her every moment she’s gone. But his head is clear, at least, except for one bright, burning thought. 

She’ll be the death of him, and he’ll thank the Maker for her every single day. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fine dwarven smut direct from Pornzammar at [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](https://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com/)


End file.
